


The Wrong Sort

by Cyano



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Auror Harry Potter, F/M, Healer Draco Malfoy, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-08-25 06:08:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16655671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cyano/pseuds/Cyano
Summary: After the war, Harry Potter is able to move past the trauma he experiences and becomes an auror. However the bad luck that followed him around his Hogwarts days never seemed to have truly left him and he repeatedly finds himself under the care of a certain blonde healer...Warning: later chapters might get a taaaad bit dark





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! this is my first fic for AO3! I planned this to be a slow burn Drarry fic, and I hope that I can update this story biweekly.  
> The basic summary is that Harry became an auror and Draco became a healer. I have a loose plot painted out, but I'm still a bit fuzzy on the details. If I become unhappy with how the story is progressing, I will not hesitate to scrap it and rewrite it.  
> I hope y'all enjoy this, and feel free to criticize. If my work is crap, let me know and hopefully I will be able to make it better <3  
> SOMEONE EXPLAIN HOW I BOLD THINGS

Chapter 1.

  
**Harry, the boy who somehow lived, despite his cocaine-high-squirrel like survival instincts**

  
At exactly 3 AM in the morning, Harry Potter was rushed to the fourth floor of St. Mungo’s hospital. His skin was waxy, and he was starting to become cold to the touch. A near hysterical Ron Weasley and grim looking young woman with black hair in a stubby ponytail bore his limp body between them. A nurse at the reception desk caught site of the trio and hurried over, a clipboard in one hand and a quill clenched in the other.  
“Name and ailment?” she asked.  
“His name’s Harry Potter, and he was blasted by some sort of dark curse.” Ron hefted Harry up and readjusted his stance. “We don’t know what he was hit with, but the spell looked purple.”  
The nurse hastily scribbled some words down and proceeded to help the two aurors load the unconscious Harry on to a trolley bed, whizzing him into a room with glass doors shutting behind the two of them.  
Draco Malfoy, apprentice healer, was sitting in the healer’s break room reading an article on potion therapy for paralysis. He sipped at a cup of tea, which had started to go lukewarm. He nonchalantly cast a heating charm.  
Ever since the end of the war and his trial, Draco Malfoy had been determined to right his wrongs. He hadn’t been carted off to Azkaban for “twelve years of hard labor”, as quoted by a squinting Wizmagot councilman, and he wasn’t letting this freedom on a platter go free. Yes, becoming a healer made a lovely reputation booster to his mud-smeared family name, but in the depth of his hearts, Draco was sincerely remorseful. The students of Hogwarts didn’t deserve to suffer. Half-bloods didn’t deserve the torture and the painful deaths administered by the Death eaters. Dumbledore didn’t deserve to die, and Severus didn’t either. Vincent didn’t deserve what happened to him, he should have gotten his NEWTS and gone on to be a ministry member like he’d talked about. The worst part was that Draco himself played a heavy hand in the mess of betrayal and slaughter. His friends, Pansy Parkinson and Gregory Goyle had attempted to comfort him by telling him it wasn’t his fault, and anyone would have acted the same way with the Dark Lord threatening their family. That was debatable. Regardless of the reasons, no one took the Dark Mark without being an accomplice.  
The little golden bell mounted on the wall of the room rang out three times and displayed a number 2. “Healer Malfoy, your presence is required in diagnostics room two!” its regal voice called out. Draco set his tea and papers down and pulled his white coat over his dark blue jumper. He stowed his wand in his pocket and left the room. In the corner of the room, the other on-duty healer snorted and burrowed deeper into his cocoon of blankets on a sofa.  
As an apprentice healer, Draco Malfoy was often given the less desirable shifts, and his apprenticeship under the healer Julia Hinge, expert in the field of reversal of dark magicks, meant that he would be manning the spell damage department, one of the busiest places in St. Mungo’s. He expected another bloke that had been drunkenly half transfigured into a slug in a bar fight or something of the sorts. Maybe, some poor fellow that had unwittingly set off someone’s security system stumbling around in the night. What he most definitely didn’t expect was the black hair and lightning shaped scar of the savior of the wizarding world: Harry sodding Potter.  
Draco didn’t like Potter. Potter was exactly what he wasn’t; brave, well liked and had a hero’s complex the size of Hagrid’s full-grown pumpkins. After graduating from Hogwarts, Harry Potter had evidently become an auror, judging by dusty and bloody grey uniform he wore. Some spell had left an apples sized hole near his stomach. Draco didn’t doubt that Potter had probably heroically launched himself in the way of some madman’s spell in effort of saving someone else. Yet somewhere deep down, his stomach fluttered at the sight of the man. He hoped it wasn’t too late for him.  
The apprentice healer began his routine of diagnosis, pulling on latex gloves and chanting incantations that would show areas of ailment. There was no obvious focal point of the tracing green glow. One of the night time nurses stood on the other side of the unconscious young man, occasionally casting a heating charm, or a charm that made sure his heart was still beating. His heart rate was slowing down, and so was his brain activity. Draco knew that Potter was pale and cold. It couldn’t be any sort of cold curse, as the magic tracing around Potter’s still form wasn’t strong enough that if it had been a cold curse of sorts, the heating charm would have negated its effects. His pulse was slowing down… On a hunch, Draco cast a detecting spell that would make the patient’s blood ways glow. This was usually used for monitoring internal bleeding, but perhaps there was something wrong with Potter’s circulation?  
“He’s going into shock”, the nurse murmured, applying another heating charm and a heart accelerating charm.  
Draco’s hunch seemed to have been right, as the blood tracing spell was alarmingly fainter than it should have been. The spell must have been one that would have caused a significant amount of untraceable blood loss. The notes written by the receptionist had said the spell had produced a purple light. That meant it would most likely be the bloodletting curse, also known as sansaguinus. It wasn’t terribly common, and Draco had to summon a book on counter spells to find the write spell. He muttered an incantation, and as he suspected, a faint hissing noise was heard. He asked the nurse to bring several blood replenishing potions, and even a nutrition potion and another heating potion for good measures. This would mean no one would have to actively monitor his body temperature, and he wouldn’t be at risk of boiling from too many heating charms.  
Satisfied that the nurse would be able to handle the rest, he grabbed a report form and started filling it out. While jotting down a few last notes about what he prescribed to the recovering auror, he wondered who exactly had brought Harry Potter to St. Mungo’s. Soon, Harry was sleeping peacefully in a private recovery room. His auror’s uniform had been neatly folded on the bedside table with his wand, and he had been washed and dressed in a hospital gown. He looked a lot nicer, Draco thought, without his glasses and the mildly stressed look that he remembered Potter having.  
It was now 3:25, and Ron Weasley anxiously paced the dimly lit waiting room of the fourth floor. The only sound in the quiet room was the sole of his shoes brushing across the deep grey carpets and the ticking of a great grandfather clock in a corner. Ron and Harry’s squad leader, Auror Morgana Tin had found herself a seat in one of the plush arm chairs, and was watching Ron pace, her face still wearing the same grim expression. Every now and then, she picked at a bit of dried blood on her hand, her face or her pant leg.  
The assignment had been tough. Ron and Harry were recently made aurors, and Robards had assigned the two of them under Auror Tin for a relatively easy assignment. They were to head to a certain old muggle factory and report on whether it was being used. There were rumors that a certain group of shady wizards were using it as a base for concocting illegal potions, but Robards was certain there wasn’t any basis to the rumors. The whole assignment was supposed to just be some practice on filling in the necessary paperwork.  
It was a very surprising turn of events when Auror Tin and the two rookies had apparated in front of the collapsing building under the cover of darkness and found themselves surrounded by a good half dozen figures in black cloaks. Simultaneously dodging spells and throwing up shields, Tin had managed to cast a Patronus (a raven) and called for backup. Unfortunately, in the midst of the rather unfair duel of sorts, she had not noticed a spell coming for her and Harry Potter had dashingly thrown himself in front of her and had been hit in the stomach. Seconds later, the place was filled with angry aurors, wands drawn and incapacitating the remaining wizards that hadn’t been stunned by a furious Ronald Weasley. The boy who lived and had the survival instincts of a squirrel on cocaine had spent almost a full five minutes insisting that he felt fine and didn’t need the attention of a mediwizard before collapsing into the arms of a panicking Weasley and being apparated into St. Mungo’s.  
Draco Malfoy went to the waiting room out of curiosity. It wasn’t uncommon for healers to comfort the friends or family of the ailing that had been in their care, but the blonde healer wasn’t one for such customs. Seeing the face of a former war criminal no doubt provided very little comfort.  
The site of the Weasley, pacing the room like a caged kneazle didn’t cause him much surprise. Of course, Weasley became an auror as well, being the bloody heroic type he was. There was a witch in the room as well, a tall and lanky one with black hair and an auror uniform faring no better than Potter’s or Weasley’s. He placed his face in a perfect, alabaster mask.  
Ron openly gaped at Draco Malfoy in a healer’s coat. In school, Malfoy had been the most insufferable git that ever existed. The fact that he could become a healer shocked Ron; there should be some sort of standard as to who could become a healer and who couldn’t. Definitely not Malfoy, who probably took more pleasure in sending people to the healer’s than helping them out of the place. Hell, there was a chance that perhaps Malfoy had treated Harry. He wondered if Harry was alright. If he had to take a guess, Malfoy probably stuck him with as many unnecessary needles as he could and forced some sort of needlessly foul potion down his best mate’s throat. Ron could see Malfoy a bit more as a healer now, making children cry with nasty herbs and unsavory remedies.  
“Good day, auror Weasley,” the apprentice healer greeted him neutrally. “I’m here to inform you that auror Potter will be in good hands. We’ve successfully alleviated the curse and he’s currently in the recovery ward.” He paused at Ron’s surprised expression, before asking “Would you like to see him?”  
Weasley was still in a mild state of shock. Draco attributed it to either the carrot-head seeing him for the first time in three years, or just the after affects of a bout of adrenaline. Perhaps he would insult him once, just for old time’s sake. Maybe, make a joke about how his current job must make more than his father did after thirty years. The sour faced auror with her hair pulled back in a choppy bunch had left, muttering that she’d better get a pay raise.  
“Auror Weasley.” Draco passively repeated. “I’m here to inform you that Auror Potter’s been successfully treated for his condition and is now recovering in a ward. If you wish to visit him, this might be arranged with the receptionist.” Having said his lines, Draco turned to leave.  
“Malfoy, wait.” Draco stopped and turned around, not expecting the young auror to have uttered his name. “Malfoy, what did they do to him?” Ron asked. His hands were clutched together, his knuckles white and nails digging into his skin. In the dim light, the healer in training could see just how exhausted the man was. There were dark circles under his sleep-deprived red eyes, and his skin was pale even compared to his normal complexion. “What hit him?”  
Draco Malfoy felt a pang of pity. There was no sneering that he’d expected. No self-righteous attitude, no attempt to belittle him on the war.  
“A bloodletting curse, a simple one,” Draco replied. “If you require any further assessment of his condition- “  
“It’s all my bloody fault, it was.”  
Draco clamped his mouth shut.  
“I could’ve thrown up a protego, I could’a interrupted it”. Ron Weasley looked miserable. He took a shaky breath, as if holding a sob back. “Harry almost died an’ I didn’t do a single fucking thing to stop it.”  
Somewhere very deep down, the urge to insult the distressed auror or taunt him died silently. “You can’t expect yourself to protect Potter, he’s a fully-grown person.” He summoned a box of tissues with a flick of his wand and passed it to the ginger who blew his nose loudly into the tissue. “Besides, if anyone should be worried about that oaf, it shouldn’t be you. You got him here, right? In one piece, still breathing too. He’ll be fine.” He observed Weasley, surprised that his words seemed to have given him some comfort. The nervous hand wringing had stopped, a limp tissue loosely grasped in his hands. “You should go see him, I think he’d like to see his best mate waking up.”  
____________________  
Harry Potter, the boy who lived through a bloodletting curse woke up feeling very much uncomfortable. His muscles ached, his joints creaked and his attempts to move highlighted the massive headache he was experiencing. He felt something on his arms resting atop of the hospital bed covers. There were rune patches stuck on. Harry wasn’t sure what they were for; runes were never his strong point in school.  
He noticed Ron passed out in the plush mauve armchair by his bed, his head propped against his palm and drooling a little bit.  
One of the runes on his hand started humming the muggle British national anthem, waking Ron up. His eyes flew open and he briefly lost his balance, palm hitting himself in the eye.  
“Morning Ron”. His voice cracked, feeling particularly dehydrated.  
Ron Weasley stood up, stretching all six feet of him. “Morning, Harry. I’m going to see if I can find you a nurse. Glad to see you awake.” He dusted his dark brown sweatshirt and reached for the ward door. At that moment, the door flew open, revealing a nurse of slight build and a clipboard. She unabashedly ogled Harry, before exclaiming in a high-pitched voice, “Auror Potter, sir! I’m here to run a few tests on you!”  
Harry let the nurse run her tests, not fighting her magic probing his aching ribs and head. “Hey Ron, do you know which healer treated me? I should thank them”. He reached over to the table where his glasses sat, any damage already charmed away.  
Ron looked mildly amused, running a hand through his hair. He comfortably leaned against a wall. Harry noticed that he was still wearing his uniform, complete with dust and burns. “You wouldn’t believe it mate, it’s quite funny actually. Draco blimey Malfoy.”  
Harry stopped polishing his glasses and set them back on his face. “Oh.”  
____________________  
Andromeda Tonks held the small sleeping boy with brilliant blue hair in her arms and rocked back and forth in the plush green velvet chair. The lustrous white room was usually used solely to receive visitors. It didn’t have any carpet, just shiny black wooden floors in case the visitors brought muddy shoes with them. The most prominent feature, a tall fireplace built with a lovely white marble streaked with cranberry imprints of prehistoric creatures and sediment held a magically lit fire that kept the room warm from the autumn chill.  
Andromeda had brought the armchair into the room and had stationed herself in it ever since the day before when she’d received a floo call from a blonde-haired healer about Harry’s magical ailment. She was worried beyond her mind. She’d scooped the sleeping child from his bed and brought him with her to her post, unwilling to deal with her worried mentality by herself. It was a floo call, days after the fact that had told her about her beloved Fred, and it had been a hastily send floo call that had told her about her precious Nymphadora and Remus. She hugged Teddy tighter and kissed his soft forehead. She rocked back and forth. Desperately, she wished that Harry would come home safely.  
It was in the afternoon, when Andromeda woke up. Teddy had left, presumably fed by a house elf. Andromeda summoned for a house elf. Tipper appeared, a relatively large house elf wearing a lovely little uniform of white fabric. He carried a tea tray laden with a teapot, cream and sugar.  
“Tea, mistress?” He asked. She nodded, readjusting her back into the chair so that she was no longer slouching. She smoothed down her navy-blue dress and readjusted her shawl before accepting the china tea cup. Tipper had thoughtfully placed a dash of milk in the lavender tea, exactly the way she liked her tea.  
She never got to enjoy her tea beyond appreciatively smell the lovely aroma as in that moment, the fireplace flashed green and spat out a young man with messy black hair and glasses, still dressed in a white hospital gown supported by, or maybe supporting considering that he was lurching to the side trying to regain some sense of balance, a young man with bright copper hair. Her tea splashed across her lap as she jumped with surprise. Not minding the hot liquid on her dress (the thick woolen material absorbed it before it hit her skin) she embraced them both. Behind her, Tipper hastily grabbed the shattered bits of the tea cup, disapparating them and the tea stain on the velvet armchair fabric. Withdrawing herself form her fierce hug, she frowned at the.  
“You boys really ought to be more careful, my poor heart can’t handle this sort of thing.”  
Harry grinned sheepishly. “Sorry Dromeda. I’m home.”  
____________________  
Draco Malfoy woke up on his couch, still dressed in his clothes from yesterday. He hadn’t showered upon returning, it had been close to 5 in the morning when he’d apparated in from of his flat. His almost white blonde hair clung uncomfortably to his head, and the inside of his mouth tasted unfortunately like shit. His clock told him it was noon. He trod across the creaking walnut floors towards the bathroom, discarding his sweater, jeans and then boxers as he walked. Stopping in front of the mirror, he stared at his reflection. His grey eyes stared back. His hair was messy, flipping awkwardly up on one side of his head. His shoulders and chest, once well-muscled and defined from quidditch many years ago had wasted into a thinness that he liked hidden under his clothes. He could almost see his ribs.  
As he showered and brushed out his mouth (yes, he could’ve cleaned with magic, but he enjoyed the motions) he thought about Harry Potter, in his ward. He’d likely returned home now to his doting Weasley of the female variety and his crowd of little Potterlings. The thought of Harry being happily married made him a tad bit sad for some reason. He attributed it to the fact that he was very much by himself. Ever since his trial, Draco had taken his opportunity to flee from that cursed manor that he grew up in. He hated walking about the halls, expecting Voldemort to be waiting for him, eyes glinting with unspeakable evil. He didn’t want to see his parents, of whom he loved but reminded him of how they lived, terrified for their lives when Lucius fell out of favor of the Dark Lord. To place it simply, he was running away.  
When the bathroom was so filled with hot steam that his head felt light, he stopped the water from the tap with a flick of his wand and stepped out. He wrapped a fluffy white towel about himself and redressed himself with clothes found in a clean laundry hamper. A quick drying spell left his hair dry and a bit puffed up. He didn’t have to go to St. Mungo’s again until 8pm, and so picked up a book to kill time. These days, he only left the house to go to the hospital, and the only people he interacted with regularly were Madame Hinge, his mentor every now and then, Blaise Zabini. Research occupied most of his time. The current issue he was poking at was the use of potion therapy in reversing the unpleasant affects of the cruciatus curse. Nerve damage from burns, severe trauma and the likes had been known to be fixable with a simple concoction of potions, most of which contained seeds of the small absinthe. He wondered if, since the cruciatus curse overstimulated every pain receptor in your body and deadened certain pathways in your brain, potions that encourage regrowth in the brain might help the victim regain some of their functions. Memories wouldn’t be regained, he suspected, but it would still be a vast improvement to the state of life some members of the Janus Thickey ward lived.  
The next time he broke concentration was when the booming voice of the grandfather clock sang out “Six O’clock… Now burst above the city's cold twilight  
The piercing whistles and the tower-clocks…”  
Draco looked up, disoriented. He realized that he was probably feeling hungry. It had been a few hours, and he had to untangle his stiffened legs from their neatly folded position on the armchair. He rubbed his eyes, set his book down and limped to his kitchen. His left foot was numb. The kitchen was quite empty, exactly the way it had been the last time he’d checked it. A thought did occur that he should have to buy groceries at some point. He grabbed a jar of hazelnut spread and a spoon and absentmindedly consumed a large mouthful of the sugary sweet paste.  
In that moment, something flew past his ear.  
Draco, confused and startled, dropped his jar and spoon. There was an indignant looking rather large barn owl that had landed on his counter, perched on an empty fruit bowl. It hooted at him and puffed out its downy chest and held out a claw. Draco hurried to untie the parcel, receiving a few gentle pecks in the process. He didn’t recognize the owl; he doubted that he even knew anyone that had a barn owl. Or, at least anyone that would want to send him anything.  
The large barn owl had left, flying out of the open window Draco had opened about a week ago to let some air in. The small piece of paper was scribbled with a somewhat messy script.  
  
To Healer Draco Malfoy  
Auror Weasley informed me as to what happened last night. I would like to thank you for what you’ve done for me; I woke up well rested and feeling significantly better than I remembered passing out. I’m happy to know that you’ve done well as a healer, and I would like to treat you to tea at some point. We could talk and catch up on how we’ve been since Hogwarts. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t have any bad intentions, I just wish to thank you.  
Have a nice day and hopefully, hear from you soon.  
(Signed) Auror Harry Potter


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for all of you that were waiting for not updating. I have a lengthy list of excuses- I had finals and a shit ton of projects I procrastinated on to finish, I spent a good two weeks in rural Asia with no internet access or an adapter for my laptop, and I may or may not have accidentally spilled acetone on my laptop and melted it. Anyway, here's chapter 2. I've come to learn that I shouldn't promise things, so chapter 3 will come when it does <3  
> Thank you all for still reading. Your comments are appreciated (roast me as hard you can :>)

Chapter 2

The inkwell on the paper covered desk was starting to run low. Draco Malfoy brushed the plume of the quill against his cheek, having cleared the piece of paper in front of him for the umpteenth time. If an escaped ex-death eater were to attack him, he had a plan of action. He knew what to do if the ministry of Magic decided to reopen an investigation on his participation in the war, like they’d done for Lucius several times. He was also fairly certain he had a plan of action if his house was raided by angry muggles with pitchforks. But in no circumstance, had he ever considered what he would do if Harry _blimey_ Potter sent him a letter asking him out for tea. If anything, Potter writing that he “didn’t have any bad intentions” made him all the more warry.

What was he supposed to do? Reply that, he Draco Lucius Malfoy, practically arch nemesis of the Boy Who Lived next to the Dark Lord himself, would _gladly_ go out on a tea date with him? Draco clasped his palms across his eyes and dragged them down, groaning very loudly. The thought that perhaps, handing Ron Weasley a tissue box in the 4th floor waiting room had been a mistake crossed his mind. From how he saw it, he’d merely handed him the box to stop Weasley from crying in his reception room, like any of the healers would’ve done. Did they think that he’d gone soft? He was certain, if he went on the tea date, Potter would take the opportunity to gloat about the war. No doubt his head was big enough for that. There was also a high probability that Potter would want to call in a favor for keeping his family out of Azkaban by testifying at their trial. Draco didn’t have the heart to fight Potter anymore, there simply wasn’t a reason to. He was tired of it this kind of thing.

At the same time, he could tell Potter off, that he wasn’t interested in being humiliated and boasted to. How smug he might be, savior of the world and all. He could show up and show Potter that he was strong despite what had happened, that he wouldn’t be intimidated. Maybe this would throw the sods off his trail. He decided that might be his best course of action. Had he ignored the letter, he wasn’t sure what Potter would do next. Having made up his mind, he dipped his quill in the last of the ink and wrote a response.

____________________

To Harry Potter

Thank you for your invitation, I accept your offer for tea. You need not express any gratitude. I merely acted as any healer would have. I am free next Thursday between the times of 11 am. and 5 pm. You may owl me for where and what time you would like to go for tea.

Signed, Draco Lucius Malfoy

____________________

            Draco pulled on his jacket and wound a woolen scarf around his neck, making sure his somewhat still stubby blonde ponytail wasn’t awkwardly pressed into fabric. He hated this time of year, where the weather couldn’t make its bloody mind up. A moment ago when he’d opened a window to let his owl out with the response it had been just mildly windy with a light cloud covering over the forget-me-not blue sky; and now it was spitting cold globules of half frozen snow as if even the sky itself wished misery on Draco’s life. Unfortunately, Draco’s fireplace had never been connected to the floo and apparating into the hospital was reserved for true emergencies (lest some already ailing fool splinched themselves).

            Luckily the flat he now occupied wasn’t far from the seemingly abandoned department store. With the help of some simple Muggle transportation (they called it a ‘subway’), it didn’t take quite twenty minutes from exiting the arched doorway in the heart of London to looking in all directions and waving the doors of the dilapidated entrance open. On this day, however, the underground train was particularly crowded. The weather’s woes carried even underground, as people around him smelled like a large horde of unwashed schoolboys and a pack of muddy dogs. The man jamming his case into Draco’s thigh was also dripping water onto his expensive grey jacket, not that it mattered as a water proofing charm had been cast on it in its manufacturing. Regardless, it wasn’t very pleasant. An uncomfortable instinctual prickle on the back of his neck caused him to look up from his feet that he’d been trying to keep out of the way of a heavy looking pair of stiletto clad feet.  It took him a moment to pinpoint its source, and he pretended not to notice. A muggle man in a blue and green windbreaker was glaring at him, as if he were shit that a neighborhood dog had gifted his lawn. It didn’t bother Draco. He was used to stares, he supposed. Amongst muggles, usually uncomfortable stares belonged to individuals not approving of his hairstyle choices. From the side of his vision, he watched the dingy electric ads above practically reflecting off the muggle’s balding scalp.

            Draco moved with the rush of people leaving the apparatus at the next stop. St. Mungo’s crumbling front wasn’t too far away, just across the street.

            He waited for the small crowd of muggles to dissipate, stopping to read a notice tacked on a board with grimy plastic casing; something about a charity event needing donations by August 16th. When he deemed the area sufficiently empty, he fast walked across the street and through the closed frosted glass doors that had been charmed much like the platform at King’s Cross had been. The lobby was clean and neat with shining wooden floors free from any scuff marks despite the large number of people in it. A front desk with a prim looking woman dressed in a velvet plum pantsuit sat behind a counter with a golden top, pointing children half transfigured into tea cups and a man whose appearance couldn’t seem to settle with frog eyes or squid tentacle lips into a waiting golden elevator. Nurses bustled around with carts full of potions and bandages and every now and then an owl swooped across the room from the open window that looked into a courtyard.

            Draco stepped out of the door leading to the open waiting area from the grand wooden stairs for folks who didn’t want to crowd for a place in the elevator (fast as it may be).

“Good day Mr. Malfoy!” the receptionist waved at him. He was a lanky man in a clever looking spring green suit and tortoiseshell glasses so big that he looked a bit like a mantis. He smiled cheerily at the rushing apprentice. His name tag which read “Julius Bentley” was carefully waxed to a bright golden shine. “Good day,” Draco called back.

Healer Julia Hecate Hinge had an entire laboratory of her own in the fourth floor, located at the far end of the long corridor on the left. She was the only healer that spent most of her time conducting research for ailments rather than actively healing them. Her workplace was every bit of a wizarding laboratory, from the giant copper models of various magical systems floating and moving to their respective beats hanging above to the hundreds of large glass and gold apparatus that hummed strangely to any newcomer. Not Draco, however. He felt right at home.

Healer Hinge wasn’t often in her lab; usually she could be found hiding in her office with a mountain of leather-bound books and her magical clear glass mirror that she used in place of a notebook to write her discoveries on. Draco hung his coat up on one of the knobs by the door shaped like rabbit heads. He pulled on his white healer’s coat and went through his usual routine of arrival. In theory he wasn’t required to be at the laboratory until 7 pm, but he enjoyed showing up early to take his time enjoying the soothing whirs of magical machinery and smell the elegant and complex scents of brewing potions and sharp smelling solvents.

The first thing Draco did was check up on his potion. On one of the many long quartz tables filled with this and that was a long-legged tub of water with a medium sized silver cauldron topped with a glass lid suspended half-way in it. Underneath the cauldron was a blazing fire atop a terracotta platter.  The setup was high enough that Draco was forced to drag a squat little stool over so that he could cautiously peer into it, despite being taller than most. The almost clear solution looks perfect, even showing a duo chromatic shift between lavender and blue as he cast  _lumos_ over its swirling surface. He summoned a small ladle and spoons the liquid into three glass flasks. He quickly disassembled the setup, blowing out the fire platter, sending the cauldron to a large sink where it will be later cleaned out. Hopefully, the pure color of the potion would mean no more grinding abalone shells for another trial.

While he stored two of the flasks in a large glass cabinet with the rest of his works, he brought one of the concoctions with him over to a glass tank with various white mice.

It had been discovered by Julia Hinge herself that with curses like _cruciatus_ , parts of your brain were overstimulated, and the collateral damage resulted in symptoms similar to dementia. Hinge had also discovered that with certain potions containing small absinthe could indeed help certain trauma patients in regaining memories otherwise locked away. Draco had come up with the scheme of brewing the small absinthe’s petals with abalone shavings which is used in other potions that encourage regrowth of the body (Skelegrow capitalized off of this idea) in a solvent of dew water collected off of bamboo along with other select ingredients. Some of his earlier trials on mice exposed to the curse had shown that the mice could somewhat recover and groom, eat and drink by themselves, but they still refused to engage in social behaviors with other mice and isolated themselves, mostly unmoving.

He poured a decent amount of the newly brewed potion in the water bottles strapped to the sides of the tanks. After scribbling down what he’d done and putting the rest of the potion in the cabinet, it was time for his second task.

The centerpiece of the laboratory, Hinge’s pride and glory, was a giant glass case that took up the majority of the Eastern laboratory wall. In all of its bizarre glory, it contained exactly one hundred pieces of living human brain. Each little strip of grey cells was attached and held in place by a number of little gold and clear tubes, which pulsed magical fluids like blood vessels. It honestly never ceased to disturb Draco just a tiny bit no matter how long he was around it. Yet, in some way the web of pulsing cells and wires looked beautiful as if were a shining, living mass; sort of like how one would feel about a solid golden tangle of gut worms. Despite its magical properties, the glass casket needed to be manually cleaned. Quite unfortunately for Draco, as Hinge reasoned, too much magic in one place makes things needlessly complex. Also, it made for incentive that the device to be regularly observed for signs of malfunctions.

Rolling his sleeves up and sliding latex gloves on, Draco summoned a small bucket and magically filled it to the brim with hot soapy water. The passcode to the humongous apparatus was tricky and needed to be said in one mouthful; ‘ _omnis solvitur quaestio potest_ _’._ It Draco twice for the glass front to seamlessly part and expose its pulsing insides. He was slow and meticulous with his cleaning, scrubbing every single nook and cranny of the disgusting clear slime that accumulated in a thin sheen over every surface. He mumbled a song to himself, breathing in the overpowering scent of the disinfectant and slid a cloth across slick surfaces. It was a song that Blaise had repeatedly belted out for a few months in one of his musical phases. The man had sung it so often that Draco now knew all the lyrics by heart.

‘ _Deep into the dying day,_

_I took a step outside; an innocent heart_

_Prepare to hate me, fall when I may_

_This night will hurt you like never before’_

When he judged the glorified cabinet sufficiently clean, he returned the discarded cloth and bucket magically to where they would be cleaned. He slipped the clingy gloves off his hands and vanished them.

_‘Old loves, they die hard,_

_Old lies, they die harder_

Out of the quartz lab benches, his work place was selected as being directly beside enormous windows with rounded tops and velvet black curtains that could be drawn if needed. One of the many perks of being a researcher’s only apprentice; he needn’t ever fight with anyone over who received the best locations and newest equipment. A large leather-bound notebook parted open to white pages inscribed with observations and long names lay pushed aside, and various metal frames propped up glass forms with shimmering and mysterious substances. Draco rolled his leaves up and began portioning small brown seeds into a mortar. And thus, his true work began.

______________________________

            Harry Potter woke up dreaming of angelic figures with shining white hair and holy silver eyes. Already, his dreams were lost to wherever unremembered dreams go. His room was peaceful in the early hours; the sun didn’t rise at 6 in the morning and faint moonlight came in through his grey curtains. His burgundy walls looked black, his driftwood grey floorboards looked cold. The framed pictures of his beloved; the Weasley family, Sirius and Remus, Andromeda and Teddy, Minerva and the graduating ‘eighth year’ students, hung still on the walls.

            He felt about the dimly lit bedside cabinet (his night vision was terrible!) for his glasses and rubs his eyes before jamming them on his face. They didn’t do much for him in that lighting, but he could see enough to find where on his bed his wand had rolled into the night, probably due to his sleep flailing.

            He flicked his wrist for the lights to come on, and they did. For a moment, he sat hunched in bed, reluctant to leave the warm white comforter and furry grey blanket he had tangled around his chest. He thought about a lot in his quiet time these days; what he would eat for breakfast as motivation to leave bed, whether Ron wanted to get beer and a snack later, a haircut, as he wanted to keep the sides of his hair tidy, what kind of hair color Teddy would sport today.

            He never thought about the war outside of remembering people; that was over, and he refused to brood over it. He did think about Draco Malfoy though; he thought about the man a lot. Ever since the days before the trial of the Malfoys, Harry hadn’t known what to make of the man. A lot of things had changed. He’d seen him defeated, he’d seen his sorrow and the loving ways he treated his parents, and his guarded gaze- not hostile though, towards Harry. After everything, Malfoy wasn’t evil to him anymore, he was someone who desperately wanted to just be alright; to protect his mother from harm, to uphold his father’s honor and not crumble under the immense pressure.

            Also, for some reason he’d started to see Malfoy in a light he wasn’t sure what to do with; the former Slytherin’s grey eyes captivated him. The last he’d seen of the man was two or so years ago at a ministry event. His eyes had been a seawater grey as he followed his mother around, greeting people somewhat stiffly. Harry had stood by a beaming Arthur Weasley as he explained the purposes of a rubber duck to a group of magical creatures members, following Malfoy around the room with his gaze.

            When he’d heard Ron speak of Draco treating him after the ambush, he’d been disappointed that he wasn’t able to see the man and in a moment of impulse, had written him an invitation to tea. At the time he had been tired and crashed into bed, oblivious to what he had truly accomplished.

What was truly miraculous was that instead of a restraining order waiting to be signed in his mail the next day, he had a response written in elegant sloping hand writing. It was short and straight to the point, but it worked Potter into a mood all morning. So much so, that Andromeda had noticed and asked if he’d gotten a promotion. He hadn’t written back to the man yet.

            The floor wasn’t as cold as it looked when Potter threw his feet over the side of his large bed and onto the smooth floor. He wondered if the house elves had already started warming the kitchen with loafs in the fiery stone oven and kettles of hot water for Andromeda’s teas and Teddy’s porridges. Andromeda drank more lavender tea in a day than Harry drank coffee, which was saying something as one could theoretically argue his addiction for the substance.

            After dressing in a warm grey hoodie and a decently clean pair of joggers off his floor, Harry slipped quietly into the hallway, making sure the old wooden door of his room was silent.

            The house that Harry, Andromeda, and Teddy lived in was a spruced up old wizarding home that had been built in a French design after the previous occupant’s heritage. Harry and Andromeda had bought it together after Harry stubbornly refusing to let Andromeda raise little Teddy by herself, and Andromeda putting on a show of giving in despite of her secret joy to have Harry with them. They’d fixed the house up, installing new windows to replace the moldering old ones that were thicker on the bottom than the top, tearing out the rotting puce carpets and replacing it with shiny dark wooden floorboards. Some of the finer aspects of the house remained; stunning chert and quartz fireplaces and intricately carved wooden doors depicting cherubs that flapped their tiny feathered wings. These details, and the rural evergreen forests not far from the coast surrounding the house made it a beautiful sanctum from the bustle of London that Harry carried home with him in the dust of his auror’s uniform every day.

            The rich walls of the house painted stygian blues, soft greys and rich forest greens- colours of the sea, contained so many pictures of loved ones. From every room, a loving face peered kindly down at you, smiling warmly. In the study, it was Minerva or Dumbledore that looked peacefully at one writing letters. In the reading room, Fred and Nymphadora gazed approvingly at whatever book you happened to pick up, and the main living room with its soft brown leather couches and marble carvings gifted by Hermione and Ron as a moving in gift, bore proudly a life-sized painting of the late Mr. and Mrs. Potter above the polished white stone fireplace.

            Despite Harry’s efforts of muffling his somewhat clumsy steps, five-year-old Teddy Lupin woke up. The child, his hair messy and blue, peeked out of the door at Harry and mumbled a ‘good morning’. He hadn’t changed out of his pajamas, decorated with little brown candy frogs.

            Harry smiled at his sleepy godson’s face and picked the young child up. If he was awake, he might as well eat breakfast with Harry and Andromeda could sleep for another hour undisturbed. Downstairs, the hallways smelled faintly of burning pinewood and the perfume-like tea that Andromeda favored.  There was also an underlying scent of the heavy chestnut bread baking in the kitchens. Harry set Teddy down in one of the plush ivy green armchairs of the reading room and wrapped a cozily knit white blanket around him as the great sandstone fireplace hadn’t been lit yet. The toddler contently snuggled down, beckoning for Harry to hand him one of the many books that had been stacked on top of a small dark-wood tea table. The sun had begun to rise, casting a red glow through wide windows on the snowy white reading room walls.

            In the cellars, the three house elves busily shoveled pine logs into a large brick furnace. The magically lit flames cast dancing shadows on the stone walls of what used to be a dungeon, complete with the remains of rings for manacles and grooves in the floor where sliding barred doors once sat. Instead of sharp tools stained permanently with suspicious substances, sacks of flour and fresh barrels of vegetables and vegetables leaned against freshly scrubbed walls. A metal frame hung from the wall with various Andromeda-approved wines.

            Upon Harry entering the cellars, old Kreacher was the first to gruffly great him.

“Master has woken up. Would master Potter like chestnut bread or peach scones?” The elderly house-elf had on a rather comically large apron and a humungous tray laden with yet-to-be-baked goods.

            The other two elves, Toby and Pippy squeaked greetings while shoving relatively large garden vegetable pie into an oven. Harry allowed Kreacher to fill a large plate for him with thick slices of bread, mushrooms, scones and slices of apple.

            “Could you grab me a bowl of oatmeal, if you don’t mind?” Harry inquired, as Kreacher looked at him expectantly. These days, Teddy had hit an odd phase where he wanted oatmeal with every meal. Kreacher hastily poured large portion into a red porcelain bowl from a pot heating on the stove tops and swept a handful of cut apples from the countertops filled with all sorts of foodstuff. “Thank you Kreacher. That’s wonderful.” The house elves beamed at Harry, now struggling slightly to balance an excessively filled plate of breakfast and the bowl of porridge.

            The last two years were something new to him, really. The concept of having a family that was _his_ , not just the Weasleys, never ceased to bring a slight joyous flutter to his heart. He loved the Weasleys and would never stop doing so.     Ron was his brother, and Molly and Arthur may as well be his mother and father. Despite the slight awkwardness of Ginny, of which they’d been engaged for a year before they’d broken it off, Harry never missed a holiday at the Weasley’s family home, a large bungalow styled cottage with many rooms for visiting children, built on top of the old one.

            The Ginny situation was unfortunate. There was a time where he genuinely knew he loved her, no doubt. With the passing of time, however, the feelings started to dwindle, and Harry grew complacent with the relationship. There was no more spark, no more joy in seeing Ginny’s face. Ginny had her own life going, and it no longer centered on Harry, the wizard savior. As the chaser for the Holyhead Harpies, she was rarely home. She simply didn’t have the time for a steady relationship, between interviews and never-ending practices. And so, sad that it was, they broke it off. Ginny went to lead a life of glamour and adrenaline, and Harry went to live with Andromeda and Teddy and the auror department.

            Upstairs, he set the bowl of warm fruit and oatmeal porridge in front of the expectant child, whose hair had gone a fire-engine red shade. As Harry munched on his own breakfast and tolerated Teddy’s pilfering of his scones, he watched the sunset and mentally revised what he would write back to Draco.

 

____________________

To Draco Malfoy

Thank you for replying, let's meet up at The JillyJally on Twelvings Avenue on Thursday at 1 pm. They have excellent scones. Until then~

-Harry Potter

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